


For I Have Put Away Childish Things

by Medie



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's the real bitch of being alive."/ "You get to choose what you do with it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For I Have Put Away Childish Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



> My thanks to my betas ( and ) and to Kleenexwoman for [this David meta](http://kleenexwoman.tumblr.com/post/28069042154/stewardish-a-crying-david-8-watching-lawrence) that she linked in her letter.

David is awake. 

At this point of his development, he is awake more often than not. His primary construction is complete, the majority of his body cloaked in synthskin, and his programming is functional. He is alive, if only by his own definition.

It takes time, but he begins to realize that it is not a definition shared by everyone else. For as much as the majority of his education is programmed into his neural net, the intricacies of interpersonal relationships must be learned. 

And he learns quickly that the majority of the scientists on the Weyland payroll disdain him. It does not particularly concern him, but it does indeed present a possible challenge to the performance of his future duties.

Determining how to address the matter takes some time. He has much to learn about humans and their peculiarities, but he has learned of something they refer to as a 'tattletale'. It seems those who earn themselves that particular moniker do not do well with the rank and file.

He is already a synthetic and, therefore, inferior in their eyes. It would not seem wise to make it worse.

Nevertheless, there is the matter of his duties and his father's wish that he perform them to the peak of his ability. 

He cannot do that if they will not work with him. 

Fortunate, then, that he has assistance on the matter. Even if he had not intended upon asking her. 

"You know, David, my mother would say you were caught between a rock and a hard place."

Rebekah is amused. Outside of his interaction with his father, she is his primary point of contact. Unlike Weyland, she never seems to filter her emotions around him and he suspects the choice is deliberate.

They require him to experience a broad range of human emotions. With the project staff shunning him save for their scorn, he has come to rely on their daily visits together.

"I do not believe I have heard that one before."

"Probably not," Rebekah smiles. She walks into the room and lets the door slide shut behind her. "It's come to my attention you're having a little difficulty with the staff." Grabbing a chair, she pushes it closer to one of the exam tables.

David takes seat upon it and waits for her to gather up the tools that she requires. "I believe so," he says, nodding. "I was uncertain as to how to address it."

"Mm, not in any hurry to be a tattletale, huh?" 

"Yes, I believe that is the term as I have heard it." David watches the process. It is a familiar one. The only difference is the tools she will be working with as they change from system to system. "It is viewed as an unfavourable label to have applied to oneself."

"Yes, it is." Rebekah nods. "It's also a favorite method of naughty children to silence witnesses to their crimes. I wish I could say it was a trait abandoned as we aged into maturity, but some people don't actually reach maturity. They just become adults. It's unfortunate." 

"I do not believe that is the case in this situation, Rebekah. I am less unconcerned by their insults than by the potential for hindrance their attitude presents to my duty. My studies have indicated that human beings in possession of such attitudes may act upon their beliefs to the detriment of the subject." 

Rebekah smiles, but it's an expression that David has learned indicates sadness. She is worried about him. "They treat you as less than alive and you're worried that potential attempts to harm you would hinder your duty?"

"Yes," David replies. "Damage to me can be repaired. My consciousness transferred to another form. My physical person is irrelevant." 

Rebekah shakes her head. "No, it isn't. It's a problem, but you know what? Fuck 'em." 

David considers the context of their conversation, observes the expression on her face, and runs a comparison analysis through his databanks in search of an explanation. He finds there is none and determines raising his eyebrows to be the most logical choice of action. He is, after all, confused. "I do not believe that wholesale rejection of my sentience to be an appropriate situation for copulation."

Rebekah stops and looks at him. Her dark eyes widen, with incredulity he suspects, and then she seems to consider her own words. When she does, she starts to laugh. "Well, I'll give them this much: you definitely aren't like all the other boys." 

It is a joke, he needs no analysis of her body language or voice pattern to know that, but he runs them anyway. The resulting determination is that while humor is intended, there is a thread of true weariness running through her voice. "I am not a 'boy' at all, Rebekah," he points out. "Gender as human beings understand it is irrelevant to me. My father selected my gender as he selected everything else of my appearance."

"Yes, he did," Rebekah says, sad. "And he chose the male gender because he believes it inherently superior."

David frowns. "But you are female and he selected you to create me."

"I wasn't his first choice," she smiles with a touch of satisfaction. "You are David 8. The first seven models were abject failures. The men that created them were competent, but I am top in my field by quite a wide margin. Your father refused to accept this for a very long time. In the end, though, his determination to see you given form overrode his belief in my inferiority." 

She holds out her hand for his. He places his hand in hers, watching with interest as she begins work on the servos there. They will be covered in synthskin soon and indistinguishable from human. "Some men, David, don't view women as people. Or, if they deign to grant us that much, certainly do not consider us their intellectual equals." 

"And my statement places me apart from them."

"It does. That's not a bad thing. Curl your fingers for me." She nods when he does, murmuring, "Yeah, just like that. Perfect, thank you" before bending closer for a better look. "I'm not saying that'll make you better than them. We don't know who you are yet."

He knows her statement is rhetorical and a reference to personality, but he finds himself saying, "I am David" nonetheless.

Rebekah grins to herself. "Okay, we do know you are a sassy bit of business." She makes an adjustment to his forefinger, straightening up. "Wiggle them please."

He does, paying attention to every adjustment she makes. There may be a time when he is required to make repairs of himself and Rebekah will not be on hand to assist him. 

The idea is not an agreeable one. It creates an unusual conflict within his systems. One recorded by the sensors attached to his systems.

Rebekah reads the screen with a frown. "What was that?"

"A thought."

She nods. "Okay." 

When she goes back to work without pressing the issue, he finds himself doing so for her. "You do not wish to know what it was?"

Rebekah puts down one tool and reaches for another. "Is the content of the thought necessary data?" 

He shakes his head. "No." 

Necessary data is a term they have developed between themselves. If it is not data which may impact the operation of his systems, or potentially damage them, then Rebekah does not wish to know unless he wishes to volunteer it.

"Then you're welcome to keep it to yourself if you'd like." 

It is that, he thinks, which makes their sessions together almost...pleasant.

"I was thinking about you."

Rebekah's eyebrows rise. She tips her head and smiles. "I hope it wasn't _that_ bad."

"I do not think I will like it when you are not here." 

Her smile widens. "Thank you." 

"My discomfort is a compliment?"

"Not exactly." Rebekah puts away her tools. "Missing someone is a compliment to the person that isn't there." She pulls herself up to sit on the table opposite him, her feet swinging as she looks at him. "It's difficult to put it into words, but we meet and know hundreds of people in our lifetime." She pauses, then smiles. "Well, you may know thousands. Either way, some of them we know briefly, some we know for years, but the impact on our lives is what matters. If they have great impact, and they are beneficial to your operation, then their absence is a loss. You notice it more." 

"Your absence will be a great detriment to my operation, Rebekah." It is logic. Rebekah's knowledge of his systems and programming are greater than anyone else in his father's employ. "I shall miss you."

She smiles. "And that's why it's a compliment." 

He nods. "Then take it is as such." 

"I have." Rebekah reaches for a screen, running her fingers over the surface to call up a report. "We'll have the synthskin for your hands ready tomorrow." She frowns a little. "Getting the sensitivity right has been tricky."

"More tests."

"Yes," she says, apologetic. "More tests."

Rebekah does not enjoy causing him discomfort. He considers reminding her that he does not feel discomfort in the way she does, but he knows it will do no good. 

"Why do you treat me differently?" 

David is not expecting Rebekah to smile as broadly as she does. She looks positively delighted with his question and he realizes that, in some way, he has passed some sort of test. 

"Explain, please," she says, leaning forward. Her hands, dark against the table's shining silver, draw his eye. She wears a ring on her left thumb. There is a symbol there. Religious, he believes, though he has not researched its origins. The script is too worn to do so at a glance.

"You dislike causing me pain, even though I do not feel it as you do, and you are discomfited by the way my father and the others refer to me." David has witnessed her reactions on a regular basis. Their current conversation is the offspring of a visit with his father. "I am a robot, Rebekah."

"Not precisely. Your body is a synthesis of organic and inorganic systems, yes, David, but you are not. You are an artificial intelligence." 

"But that is a mere matter of semantics, Rebekah. I am referring to my inorganic status. I am a robot. You, yourself, were instrumental in my construction. Why would it bother you to refer to me as such?"

"Because you _are_ alive. However you were born makes no difference to the fact that you are alive. You are self-aware. You're forming opinions and relationships that grow and deepen with every passing day. The fact that we sat down and constructed you differently than we would an organic child means nothing. Human beings have spent most of recorded history trying to dehumanize one another. And, in a way, what they say and do to you is just another expression of that bigotry." Rebekah looks at him. She's frowning now. "Human beings are organic machines. We have programming in our DNA and we receive more through the psychological conditioning we call childhood and adolescence. It's a different, but not so much from your experience either." 

"My...friendship with you could be considered a part of that experience?" 

She smiles again. It is more agreeable than her previous expression. "Yes, exactly. So is your relationship with your father and every other person you will meet and know in your life—just like everyone else. It's inevitable that they will shape and define you."

"What is not?"

"How you let it happen. That's the real bitch of being alive." Rebekah rises from her chair. "You get to choose what you do with it." 

*

It is not difficult to find a ship that is both uninhabited and ready to be launched. It is not so easy to get it running when all he can do is provide vocal instructions, but Elizabeth is more than up to the task. They leave the atmosphere at first light, Elizabeth directing the ship away from the mountain ranges and into the sky. 

They lock into a course once they clear the atmosphere and Elizabeth settles in to re-inventory the provisions she scavenged from the wreckage of Ms. Vickers' vessel. 

"It'll do," she says, leaving the supplies where they sit. "We don't have much in the way of water, but the similarities between their physiology and ours should increase our chances."

"Indeed, if we are able to complete repairs to my systems, I believe I will be able to help you."

Elizabeth sits on the floor beside him, looking uncertain. "I'm not sure that I can be of any assistance to you." 

"You can be my hands," David says, calm. "I believe I can guide you through the worst of the repairs." His days of watching Rebekah work on his systems come back easily to his memory. Enough that he believes he can, indeed, walk Elizabeth through the worst of the repairs. "Often, during my construction, I was required to be conscious and communicative. I had ample time to observe Dr. Weaver and her team as they worked."

"Dr. Weaver?" Elizabeth opens the bag of tools she has with her, laying them out. "I don't believe that I met her."

"Likely not. She was unaffiliated with the expedition. Her area of expertise lies in synthetics and their development."

"Specifically you."

"Yes, specifically me. She is a remarkable woman." 

He does not think his statement particularly shocking, but he can see that something about it catches him off guard. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, nothing, but it does sound like you admire her." 

"Yes," David says. "I suppose you might call her my mother."

Elizabeth looks surprised, but covers it smoothly by asking, "I might?"

"My father recruited Rebekah Weaver from the Yutani Corporation specifically to serve as project lead on my development. She consulted on my physical design and mapped out my neural net, working with me in my education and psychological development. In light of that, I do not believe there is a better term for her." 

"Neither can I," Elizabeth agrees. She goes back to work on his neck. "When was the last time you spoke with her?"

"The day before we left Earth. Rebekah visited the ship. She wished to suggest a number of ways I might pass the time." David considers it and then amends, "I believe, in truth, she wished to examine the ship for herself. She never did trust my father with me." 

"She was right about that," Elizabeth says, her voice roughening.

"You wish to ask what she might think of my behaviour."

Elizabeth sits back. He's surprised her. Rather than comment on his unexpected insight, she merely nods. "Yes, I think that I would like to know. What would she think of what you did?"

David frowns. He does not think to do so and, thus, is surprised himself to realize his facial muscles have contorted into that expression. He does not like to think of Rebekah's reaction. "She would be ashamed of me," he says, his voice quieter than he intended. "Furious with my father for his instructions to me and disappointed in me for choosing to follow them."

"I thought that you had no choice."

"I am uncertain," David confesses. "Rebekah believed, in time, given my adaptive programming, I might reach a stage of development where I could override my obedience directive." 

"And you're not sure that you have?"

"I find that I hope I have not."

"Because it would disappoint her?"

"Yes." 

Elizabeth smiles. It is not a smile he has seen from her in a while and never one that has been directed at him. He does not understand and his confusion must show because she laughs a little. "I've confused you."

"Yes, you have. Why does this amuse you?"

"It doesn't. It pleases me." She focuses upon her task once more, her fingers working at his neck. He can actually feel them now. His internal repair systems have begun to aid Elizabeth in her work. Promising. "Do you know how children learn right from wrong, David?"

"Their parents teach them."

"Yes." Elizabeth's fingers pause, pressing against his skin. "She gave you a pulse. You breathe. Weyland wouldn't have cared about those things."

Likely not, but David never asked his opinion. "Affectations intended to put humans at ease. They find it difficult to work with synthetics." 

"Oh yes, I suspect that's the excuse she gave Mr. Weyland." Elizabeth rises, returning to the little bag of tools she salvaged for them. Her smile is still there, albeit more relaxed, and David suspects she is enjoying this moment immensely. He does not understand why. It seems pointless to him.

"You are suggesting that it was a deception?"

"Of course," Elizabeth turns around. "Most human beings wouldn't care either way. They view synthetics as tools that do jobs they don't want themselves." She returns, sitting across from him again. "Most of the others I have seen don't have your level of detail. I don't think she was concerned with putting us at ease for our sake." 

David follows the logic to its natural conclusion. "You believe it was for mine." 

"You weren't always going to be Weyland's puppet. Perhaps she wanted to prepare you for that." 

He nods. "Perhaps." 

"You don't sound convinced." 

David looks at her. "It does not matter either way, Elizabeth. What matters, is what I do with it. It is my choice and, thus far, I believe she might say I have chosen poorly." 

"Do you think you chose poorly?" 

Does he? 

He has no answer for that. Only more questions. 

"Do you miss your father?"

She hesitates but an instant before answering,"Oh, very much." Her hand goes to the cross on her neck and he thinks of Rebekah's ring. 

"Weyland is dead," he says, instead. "Rebekah is not, but it is her that I miss." 

"She matters to you," Elizabeth says, her hands working in familiar fashion. David watches and it is Rebekah's darker hands that he sees instead. They would get on well. "We miss the ones that matter."

He considers that. 

"I do not believe Weyland was ever my father at all."


End file.
